


Swan Song

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Code Geass
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Inline with canon, Loyalty, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Obedience, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26597023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "But the days pass, and Lelouch does not ask; until the last of them is spent, and in the shadows of the last night Suzaku reaches out to what he long since abandoned and claims his agency once more." Suzaku and Lelouch have their first on the last.
Relationships: Kururugi Suzaku/Lelouch Lamperouge | Lelouch vi Britannia
Comments: 7
Kudos: 61





	Swan Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claws/gifts).



Lelouch does not issue a summons.

Suzaku was prepared for one. He has waited through the months and weeks and days that have brought them to this moment, to this night, obedience as close to hand as the sword at his side, ready to bow his head of his own volition to the compulsion that rings under Lelouch’s every word. And he has wondered, has imagined, has even expected the demand for this, this last night before the dawning of a new world. Lelouch has long since spent the last of his hesitation; with even Nunnally compelled to surrender, there is nothing more that can stop him in his plan. He may demand the world and expect its capitulation: the submission of one man is a triviality, in the face of that. But the days pass, and Lelouch does not ask; until the last of them is spent, and in the shadows of the last night Suzaku reaches out to what he long since abandoned and claims his agency once more.

It is only for the night. Suzaku knows that even as he paces down the hallways of the palace that struggles to match the grandeur Lelouch demands of it, even as the echo of his footsteps makes an army from his shadow. The bargain is made, the commitment complete; there will be no turning aside from the fate to which they are bound and perhaps have been bound for far longer than Suzaku knew to fear it. But there is a forgiveness in the night, a grace to the shadows that shies from the brilliance of the day, and when Suzaku comes to the door to Lelouch’s chambers he does not knock before he closes his hold on the handle to step past the silent guards and within.

There are no lights within. The lateness of the hour chases aside the thought of illumination, rejects even the flickering glow of a candleflame; but the curtains are open, drawn wide from the window that towers high over Suzaku’s head. The panes are absent the color that marks the artistry of stained glass throughout the rest of the palace, and through them the light of the full moon is spilling to silver the chaise drawn up before the frame.

Lelouch is lying across the lounge, his head turned to the side and one arm angled across the slimness of his waist. His robes are falling around him, spilling to pour their opulence around his body and over the edges of the lounge, but his head is uncovered, the dark of his hair shining silver in the moonlight. He does not move as Suzaku comes through the door, doesn’t so much as stir to disprove the possibility of sleep, but Suzaku can feel the tension in the air, and it is no surprise when Lelouch’s voice rings out to fill the silence around them.

“I wondered if you would come.” There is a resonance to his voice—the same weight that is always there, now, that has filled his tongue with the assumption of command that bleeds the Geass into his eyes—but there is no intention to the command, no implication to his words. They are idle, a curiosity satisfied rather than an expectation met, and as Suzaku steps forward across the floor Lelouch turns his head to look at him. The moonlight slips across his features, halving them to stark shadow and glowing silver, and Suzaku meets the weapon of Lelouch’s gaze without flinching as he comes nearer.

He crosses the whole of the room in silence, with no more announcement than the pace of his boots upon the marble floor, and Lelouch watches Suzaku draw alongside him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t lift a hand or shift a knee; he just remains as he is, draped across the couch with the same careless elegance as in the fall of his embroidered clothing. Suzaku comes to the edge of the chaise, until the toes of his boots are brushing the hanging sleeve of Lelouch’s robes; and then he stops, head bowed to look down at the man lying before him.

They are silent like that for a long moment. The moonlight is bright: it curves shadows in the wake of Lelouch’s lashes and traces the high elegance of his cheekbones. Suzaku wonders if the soft of Lelouch’s mouth is another kindness of the light, if the look in his eyes is another gift of the lateness of the hour. He wonders if he should care more about the answer. But it is late, and it is the last of their nights; and then Lelouch lifts an arm, drawing the weight of his clothes with it as he reaches across the distance between them. His fingers find Suzaku’s wrist, his hold tightens to clasp the bracelet of his grip upon the other’s arm, and when he tugs Suzaku leans down to surrender himself to a knee alongside the sweep of the chaise. He kneels beside the couch, his back straight and his shoulders steady even as he offers the tilt of his body for Lelouch’s hold, and Lelouch turns, rising from the draping weight of his clothing to draw himself onto the elbow of the arm with which he is holding Suzaku in place.

Suzaku doesn’t move away when Lelouch reaches for him. The grip at his wrist is gentle, steadying rather than insistent; he could draw free with no more than a twist of his hand, with no more than the weight of his arm tugging at Lelouch’s hold. But the moonlight is silver in Lelouch’s hair, and the shadows have softened away the scarlet mark in his eyes, and Suzaku remains as he is as Lelouch turns in to look at him with heavy-lashed consideration. Lelouch’s gaze trails Suzaku’s face, brushing at his hair, tracing his cheekbones, sliding down to the high-buttoned collar of his uniform; and then he lifts his other hand, shaking his wrist to shed the froth of fabric from graceful fingers as he reaches to touch his fingertips to Suzaku’s cheek, as the weight of his touch draws back to press his palm flush to the other’s jaw. Lelouch’s gaze drifts, holding to the motion of his thumb as he draws it across Suzaku’s face, smoothing a path just below the curve of his cheekbone. Then his hold at Suzaku’s wrist slides, his arm moving to pin the other’s open palm beneath it, and as he leans forward Suzaku shuts his eyes, and waits for the press of Lelouch’s mouth to his own.

It doesn’t feel like the first time. It should, Suzaku thinks; used to think, in the past so buried by the present it feels sometimes like he is reaching for memories from a life lived by someone entirely different, someone unscarred by loss and guilt and responsibility, someone innocent enough to catch his breath with embarrassment at the way his best friend’s smile rushes heat through him, at the hazy dreams from which he wakes tangled in the sheets and sticky with a desire he isn’t yet ready to acknowledge. Suzaku remembers thinking of this, in the late hours of long-past nights; remembers imagining how it could be, to grip at the sleeve of a school uniform like his own and slide his fingers into dark hair and draw the temptation of Lelouch’s sharp smile in to his lips. It was thrilling, then, sparkling and fever-bright with the adrenaline of kisses imagined before they are experienced, but Suzaku has long since lost the innocence of simple anticipation to the drumbeat of fate, and this is nothing like the springtime delight the boy he used to be dreamed of. This is the last gasp of autumn, a final flicker of beauty tumbling through the air before it is buried by the long cold of winter, and if Suzaku’s heart is too spent for tears he feels the echo of pain all the same, the memory of a future grief far clearer than the haze of his lost history. Lelouch’s lips claim his air, draw him down into an endless, waiting darkness; and Suzaku shuts his eyes, and lifts his hand to fit to Lelouch’s waist, and lets himself be drowned.

Their movements come easy. Suzaku feels dizzy with the simplicity of it, with the instinct that rises to push his hand along the line of Lelouch’s waist, that brings his shoulders forward and his knee up as he follows Lelouch in to frame the other’s body with his own. It doesn’t feel new; it feels old, as impossibly familiar as breathing, the physicality of some memory stolen from him by the insistence of reality. Suzaku has never kissed Lelouch before, has never before tasted the sound of Lelouch moaning into his mouth, has never felt the arch of Lelouch’s back curving to fit his body to the line of Suzaku’s own; but it is all familiar, with the immediate clarity of a déjà vu that insists on its knowledge a heartbeat too late to provide foresight. Lelouch’s fingers curl into Suzaku’s hair, Suzaku’s grip closes on Lelouch’s forearm; when Suzaku’s hand finds bare skin beneath tumbling fabric Lelouch already has a knee drawn up between his thighs to provide the shivering satisfaction of pressure before Suzaku realizes to crave it.

There are layers between them, the trailing sleeves of Lelouch’s robes and the intricate design of the uniform custom-made for Suzaku himself, but their complexities give way with impossible ease, as if their clothing itself is anxious to part for Suzaku’s hand reaching for Lelouch’s hip, for Lelouch’s fingertips trailing along the flex of Suzaku’s back. They break apart for a moment, long enough for Suzaku to hear the rasp of his own breathing and the whimper in Lelouch’s throat; then Lelouch ducks his head through moonlit-white fabric and emerges with his skin stripped bare to the light through the window and the shadows of Suzaku’s touch. Suzaku fits his palm to Lelouch’s body, feels the giveaway strain of the other’s breathing flexing in the chest beneath his hand, and when his exhale pulls to a groan Lelouch’s hands dig into his hair to draw him down, that his voice may be swallowed up by the dark heat of Lelouch’s waiting mouth.

Lelouch must have been expecting this, whatever he said to the contrary; or perhaps it is just his strategic sense that has left him so imminently prepared, that when Suzaku’s fingers tighten want against Lelouch’s hip Lelouch answers him with the offer of a hand slick-wet with intention. It is Suzaku who grips Lelouch’s palm, who coats his fingers to slippery smooth while he marvels at their steadiness; it is Lelouch who pushes aside the last of his clothing to sprawl back across the lounge, a fortune of fabric crumpled beneath the priceless treasure of his bare skin and open thighs.

He arches off the chaise when Suzaku pushes into him, his fingers between Lelouch’s legs but his gaze fixed on the other’s face so he sees the backwards tilt of Lelouch’s head, the flutter of his lashes as he surrenders control for the first shudder of sensation. Lelouch clutches at the cloth beneath him, his fingers curling to a fist against his abandoned robes; but his hand at Suzaku’s neck is gentle, his thumb smoothing against the other’s hair even as his knees quake and his cock twitches towards the taut flat of his stomach.

Suzaku doesn’t know how long they spend like that: his knee braced between Lelouch’s, his elbow over the other’s shoulder as he drinks down the notes that rise up Lelouch’s throat in answer to the thrust of his fingers. It feels like a heartbeat, a span of frantic seconds; it could be a lifetime, a night made endless in deference to Lelouch’s inviolable word. When Lelouch tightens his grip at the back of Suzaku’s neck it is enough: Suzaku stills immediately, sliding his fingers free of Lelouch’s body before he has drawn back to grant the other the use of his voice once more, should he want it. But Lelouch moves to touch instead, claiming action as payment for his silence, and Suzaku’s clothes come open beneath the familiar urging of his fingers. Lelouch strips him bare, pushing the trappings of Suzaku’s position free of his body to fall unheeded to the floor; and then his knees are at Suzaku’s hips, and the heat of their bodies are melting in the air between them, and Suzaku frames Lelouch in the arc of his arm, and bows his head to the darkness, and thrusts to sink them together in a single unflinching stroke.

Suzaku has never known such certainty. He has sought security for himself, has fumbled over the shifting sands of morality in pursuit of the bedrock his soul craves; but reality has stripped the childish trust in absolutes from his grip, has left him empty-handed and hollow-hearted in the face of the endless force of reality tearing him free from everything he once thought to value. But in the moment of union with Lelouch, in the heartbeat of their bodies joining together, Suzaku feels stability resonate through him like the tolling of a bell declaring an unassailable truth: that he was always meant to be here, to fall to the gentle weight of Lelouch’s fingers in his hair, knees at his hips, heels pressing against the backs of his thighs to draw Suzaku closer. Suzaku breathes out, a exhale of understanding, and when Lelouch clutches an arm around Suzaku’s neck to bring him closer Suzaku lets himself be drawn down, nearer, until his body is aligned against Lelouch’s, until each can feel the rhythm of the other’s heart pounding against his own. Suzaku presses his hips forward, fitting himself as entirely within the other as he can, and he breathes against the side of Lelouch’s pale throat, and he lets the tide of instinct guide the motion of his hips.

He is slow, at first. The sense of completion is too great to easily relinquish; each pull of his hips feels like a soul-deep loss, too much to bear even in pursuit of the relief of coming forward once more. But as Suzaku moves Lelouch shifts beneath him, his body tensing and easing in waves of response, and obedience to that persuasion is written into Suzaku deeper than a command could ever reach. His legs tense, his hips draw farther, until his fingers are gripping tight at Lelouch’s hip to pin the other still, to fix him against the forward thrust of Suzaku into him. And Lelouch is holding to him as tightly, his legs wrapped around Suzaku’s hips to add his strength to the other’s action, fingers clutching and stroking through Suzaku’s hair with the same convulsive strain arching his body off the couch to pin itself to the weight of Suzaku’s.

Suzaku can hear Lelouch’s breathing at his ear as heat rises in the other’s throat, rasping as he draws air and releasing it to a moan. His own breath is catching at Lelouch’s shoulder, pooling humidity at the other’s collarbone to join the salt heat spilling past Suzaku’s tight-pressed lashes. Suzaku’s arm fits around Lelouch’s waist, his fingers spreading wide to clutch Lelouch against him, to fix them together for this stolen moment; and when anticipation draws itself to a thrumming line through Lelouch’s body, Suzaku feels the echo resonating through every part of him, answering the flex of Lelouch’s fingers and the quiver at his thighs and the catch of his breath.

Lelouch strains against him, his arm around Suzaku’s neck, fingers in his hair, stalled-silent lips brushing his ear. Suzaku feels the pressure in him, the expectation, the demand trembling through Lelouch’s body, a matched shadow for the knot choking at the back of Suzaku’s throat. The precipice lies before them, the crumble of a cliff’s edge, the point of an outstretched sword, the words of a command on an emperor’s lips. Suzaku listens to the rasp of his breathing, feels the tension aching in his body, the tears climbing in his chest; and then Lelouch’s fingers loosen, his desperate grip in Suzaku’s hair softening to stroke down, to smooth the tumbled waves beneath his graceful fingers. It is a child’s affection, gentle and innocent and sincere; and Suzaku lets go his tight-held breath, and brings himself forward in a final thrust.

Lelouch shudders, all the tension in his body giving way in the long spasm of his release. His knees jerk, his breath spends; against Suzaku’s stomach his cock jumps to spurt heat between them. Suzaku feels Lelouch coming, his orgasm braced tight upon Suzaku’s body, and his own breath tears free, wrenching itself to a sob as his hips stutter to pulse his own pleasure in answer. Lelouch gasps at Suzaku’s ear, his trembling fingers stroking through Suzaku’s hair, across his shoulders, over his face, and Suzaku lets his strength go and drops them to the lounge together.

They lie there in silence. Suzaku keeps his eyes closed, keeps his face pressed to the curve of Lelouch’s shoulder as if to stop time as they are; but life continues, and as his heartbeat eases and arousal fades into the glow of satisfaction Suzaku feels his brief, blissful moment of certainty slip from his fingers once again, something unutterably precious disintegrating into the hazy memory that swallows up everything most dear to him. It is lost, vanished along with everything else; and in the beat of Lelouch’s heart against his own Suzaku feels the sand of time pouring past his fingers, reality slipping into history no matter how finely he grinds it. Tears cling to his lashes, catch his breathing harsh against Lelouch’s shoulder, and Lelouch smoothes his fingers through Suzaku’s hair in the cold comfort of a requiem.


End file.
